Mixed Messages

Mixed Messages

It’s hard for a man to think clearly when a woman says one thing but means another and unspoken promises flow from her inviting lips.

Mixed Messages
subbotina / 123RF Photo

She called me last night and angrily accused me of only wanting to talk about myself. She said I was crude and rude. She also told me she didn’t care if I was famous (“Maybe you are famous,” she snarled). After a few more harsh, unpleasant comments, she told me to never call her again and hung up.

Dating in the digital age, I’ve discovered, is emotionally perilous work. You read a woman’s profile on an Internet dating site, look at her photos, hope that she actually looks like the photos, make a wish that she’s relatively sane and then start communicating.

Her profile name was Kitty. Her pics certainly backed that up: long, luxurious blonde hair; lovely, oval face with captivating eyes and full, inviting lips; sleek, acrobatic body dressed in a skin-tight, seductive black dance outfit lying on a huge mattress bordered by gold tapestries and jungle prints. Being close to my age, I wondered how long ago the photos were actually taken.

I picked her up at her gated condo in Northridge. I looked and I was hooked. Really! She quickly got into my car (she didn’t let me see her place). She was beautiful − even better than the pictures − also bright, interesting and vivacious.

Nice restaurant. Great food. Ms. Kitty rapidly annihilating my pitiful emotional defenses with her feline, pheromone-laced charms. Sitting close, whispering closer in my hungry ears, she completely enchanted my being. My lonely, languishing libido was suddenly a burning, raging tiger, fiercely trying to burst through the confines of clothes and propriety.

I drove her home, kissed her sweetly on her soft lips but received no invitation. I drove myself and my disappointed libido home.

Next night, we went out for a second time. Again nice restaurant, nice conversation, but …

Despite my being in a hypnotic, somewhat paralyzed-male state while with her, that night, I noticed a change. She was drinking more alcohol and talking more off the wall. At that point, of course, I didn’t care if she wanted to read a phone book out loud. But a very small danger flag in my brain was waving frantically.

I drove her home. We kissed in the car and then she said she had to get up early. I was on fire and had hoped she’d finally invite me in. She got out of the car, walked to her gate then quickly walked back and got in again. She’d allow me to show her my home in Hollywood if I promised to bring her back when she asked. I agreed and drove fast.

It was about twenty miles back to where I live. But a man’s got to do what a man’s got to do in this kind of hormone-driven, emergency situation.

We got to my house. I showed her around and apologized for the messiness. While she used the bathroom, I quickly made a place for her to sit on my sofa. She came out, didn’t want to sit there and suddenly insisted that I take her home. No explanation, no discussion.

My sensual delirium was completely shattered by a sudden feeling of anger. We’d spent about 15 minutes at my house. I honestly didn’t have any expectations of what might happen. But it never occurred to me that a U-Turn Curve Ball would be thrown at me so fast.

I drove her home, saying little. She tried to make polite conversation, sensing my annoyance, but I barely responded. After dropping her off again and driving home again, I received a call from her. She was barely coherent as she began her alcohol-fueled tirade.

“All I really wanted, Alex, was for you to invite me to lay down on your bed so I could get comfortable, take off some clothes and snuggle with you!” (We’d talked earlier about watching an old movie on TV.) I told her that I was trying to be a gentleman by not asking her into my bedroom unless she let me know it would be alright.

She lectured me for a while longer and then proceeded to talk nonsensical gibberish. I again, said little, just listened. I knew this whole experience was doomed. She eventually took another call so I hung up.

Several days went by. I had already decided I was done with her when I received a strange call. It was Ms. Kitty asking me not to call her again. I will honor her wish. I won’t call her. My teenage hormones are now safely stashed and locked away in my internal garage.

Perhaps I should throw away the key.

Copyright © 2015 Alexander Lehr

Alexander Lehr
Alexander Lehr
is a singular writer, producer, entrepreneur, actor, artist, dreamer and community volunteer. He has always enjoyed entertaining people. He has produced countless plays, concerts, shows (of all kinds), films, music videos, theme parties, and many other events.  He loves cats, dogs, critters, mysterious women, classic cars, overgrown gardens, castles, road trips and appreciating what is instead of what isn’t.


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